My Nearest and Not So Flaming Dearest
by TheLyricsAreMyStory
Summary: One-shot from Carla's point of view as a teenager. Rated M for detailed descriptions of self harm and suicidal references.


**My Nearest but Not So Flaming Dearest:**

I feel lost.  
I feel broken.  
I feel angry and hurt and dirty and used and neglected and stupid and naive and torn.  
Yet I still feel empty.

Every bead of blood recalls a memory.  
Every scratch on my arm recalls a moment of weakness.  
I was so strong, but I was so weak and because of that I was so tired.

My name is Carla Donovan, I'm seventeen years old. Except I'm not, I feel about thirty, purely because I am the mother in this family. I am the only one with any sense, any dignity, any maturity. This 'family' is built of nothing but broken genetics. This 'family' is not a formation by choice, but by survival.

I knew I didn't have to do it, but in the moment of hatred and anger and self-loathing, it helped me feel something. It made me feel as if I had control, at least over something, over myself. At least if I could feel pain, I could channel my emotions into some form of physicality, to make me feel less insane, if that was possible.

My duty was to protect Rob, I had made a promise to myself that no matter how vicious he was to me, I would forever devote my life to his. Neither of us entered this world by choice, but I was hanging on by a thread and I was so close to leaving this world by my own accord.

I quickly tear the blade across my flesh, wincing as I do so, squeezing my eyes shut as if to block out the world for anything but a second. A sharp sting dances across my skin, small beads of scarlet resurface, travelling a short distance before settling into the crevices that I had carved out. It still wasn't enough, it still didn't satisfy me.

My eyes focus on the empty vodka bottle in the corner of my bedroom, staring at it so intently as if it would magically refill. Getting drunk was another release, another way of getting out of my own head. I felt supernatural when I was wasted, I felt as if I could do anything. Luckily, Michelle was more careful than me, and she would be there to pick up the pieces when I collapsed in a pool of tears at the end of the night. She would be there when I cried myself to sleep and then there in the day when I was raging at the world. She was my emotional crutch and I needed her more than anything.

Tears gather in my eyes as I think about the life I had been offered. My council flat was not a 'home' it was a torture camp. My school was not an 'education' it was a courtroom. My relations were not my 'family' they were cell mates. Cell mates who cried and drank and beat on one another in order to gain power. But my step dad was winning that battle, he would manipulate us all into feeling as belittled as possible and he would take great pleasure in doing so.

I wish there was a way to break out, to be set free from this hell that I was living. I would marry Paul, once I was old enough and he would have enough income to support the both of us and get us out of here. Paul meant nothing to me, he was just a mere method of escape. If Liam was stable enough, I would have him in an instant. I would fall into his arms and kiss him passionately as we had done time and time again behind Paul's back. But that was all a dream, we both knew that as much as we wanted each other, it was so far out of our grasp and we had to take what we were given living here.

I lower the pair of scissors, my fist releasing from where I was so harshly grasping onto them; as if they were some sort of weapon for survival. They fall with a light thud onto the grey blanket that covered my bed, not grey by choice, similar to the dark circles under my eyes.

Traces of blood cascade onto the material, only visible for a second before melting into the fibres. I run a finger along the ridges on my arm, shivering at the motions, the dull ache that arises from where I had worn away at my flesh time and time again. New and old scars, new and old memories, never to disappear.

I stare up at the window that is nothing but a small square, fitted into the arched ceiling at the end of my bed.

Night was falling, another day over, another day I managed to survive.

Another day coated in pain and suffering that no one could ever learn to understand.

Another day that would continue to haunt me for the rest of my life, however short that may be.

But another day was completed and for me, that was an outstanding achievement. 


End file.
